Nine Coins
by skeldales
Summary: She was worth nine coins, Cray told her as he shrugged on his shirt again, would have been ten if she hadn't struggled at the end. AU: No boy with the bread.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: For Muffin, a belated birthday fic. Don't worry; your Everthorne is coming. **

**Prompt: Rancorous, the Silver Challenge, at Caesar's Palace.**

_Prologue _

Beneath a murky, grey sky the dirty playground was dreary and dull. A fine coating of coal dust covered the lone slippery-dip, with the dents in the plain metal, and a series of initials carved underneath it. If a child were to slide down it their skin and clothes would be imbued with the fine, black powder, but few parents would scold; the coal dust seemed to float in the very air and covered everything already. Even the sky itself looked as if it had been rubbed with the dreary, dark reminder of the perilous livelihood eked out by the men and women in District 12. While they too hacked rock from hard stone, the diamond miners in District 1 were treated with respect for their products were so sought after. So too were the stone masons of District 2 who made things of great beauty and strength from the fresh cut stone of their quarries. The colliers of District 12 had no such skills, and the coal they mined was only used to power the antiquated trains that ran in District 11 and 8. Their work was of little importance and commanded little respect.

The air was redolent with the sounds of the first day of the new school year. High, nervous laughter mixed with the forlorn cries of the children already abandoned at the gate by their parents. Most of the children still hovered close by their parents, like ships at a dock, not wanting to risk the danger of the open water. A few of the braver youngsters drew listlessly in the dirt, waiting for the bell to toll. None bothered to play on the broken swing-set with its dangling chain, or the dented slide. When a sharp slap cut through the air a few of the children looked up and away quickly, and most of the parents tensed their shoulders. Some shook their heads disapprovingly while others nodded and thought it was about time. The high, thin cry of the youngest Anderal child stopped abruptly and she let go of her father's leg as his blow sent her reeling. The butcher was used to wielding a cleaver. His little daughter crumpled on the ground at his feet, her pink pinafore quickly turning dark as the dust clung to the fabric as she cowered, waiting for the next slap.

A lonely trio stood by the gate to the schoolyard. The woman held a thin, listless toddler in her arms, the child's straw blonde hair limp and ratty. A similarly thin girl clung to her free hand. Her small brown fingers were a contrast to her mother's pale skin. But, Abigail Everdeen's chapped fingers were slack in her little daughter's hold as she gazed out across the playground. Close by the door to the schoolhouse, a rosy-cheeked child giggled as his father swung him high up in his arms, a dizzying arc that sent the boy stumbling when he was set back down. He righted himself by catching his father's leg, the fringe of the man's apron brushing his son's head. A light dusting of flour came away in the child's blonde curls and his father brushed it away with a chuckle. The little boy was everything Abigail's daughters were not, with his carefree giggle and bright, excited eyes, but it was the father, not the son, who her gaze was upon.

Her face hard, Abigail watched the man she once thought to marry. Time hadn't changed Tam Mellark. There may have been a few more scars from the hot ovens and scalding toffee of the bakery, but none she could see. Her fingers tightened momentarily on her little daughter's hand as she remembered the fine white scar on Tam's chest, branching like a tree, and she wondered if it had faded since she last ran her fingers over it. With an angry toss of her head, she rid the thought from her mind, because Tam was there with another woman's child, his third. She heard it all from the tight knit community, but herself had become used to avoiding the bakery for the past nine years, since Tam had turned to her with a sad smile, spread his hands in helpless gesture and ushered her out the backdoor of the bakery.

"Mother?" Katniss asked for the third time. "Who's that?"

Abigail tore her gaze away, and turned to face her daughter with her face set. The little girl took a step back, stumbling on the hem of her red dress. "That's the man I should have married."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Warning! Child prostitution (a little explicit) and coarse language. **

**Prompt: Poor, the Epic Challenge at Caesar's Palace forum.**

Rain sluiced down from the heavens, each drop falling with cruel indifference. Coal dust collected in the cracks of the battered, weatherboard homes, and when it rained, it mixed with the droplets and ran down the walls in murky rivulets to join the streams rushing through the gutters. The dirt paths between huddled shops and homes turned to dark mud that gathered on the boots, hems and legs of the colliers as they trudged home. No neatly paved roads were found in District 12, unlike the broad streets that traversed District 1, or the carefully braced switchbacks that tracked through the mountains of District 2. Now, the mud seeped, cold and clammy, through the thin cotton of the girl's dress, sapping her remaining strength. Her shoulders slumped and her head hung forwards as if pulled down by the weight of her sodden braid. The cold and wet trip to the Hob had robbed her of the little reserves of energy that her meagre diet allowed. She leant against the gnarled old apple tree. Trickles of water flow around its roots, washing away the thin soil, and coal muck followed the contours of the bark. Even here in the merchant quarter, the very air was imbued with the reminder of the precarious industry of District 12.

Katniss let the rain beat her down, prostrate on the ground. She came very close to dying, right under the apple tree with the warmth and light of the bakery's stove mere metres away, and the smell of yeast on the rain-drenched air. The child's eyes fluttered shut, and her thin chest barely moved. If the muddy corner of the yard did become her grave, few would mourn her. The baker would discover her little, prone body in the morning, her skin encrusted with mud and her arms curled around herself. Or perhaps he would not be the first to find her. Packs of rangy stray dogs roamed the alleys of District 12, as thin as the Seam children, and as desperate. They would not hesitate to make a meal of the child's body, though they would find little joy in her thin arms and spindly legs. Either way, the baker would find her in the morning and walk with head hanging, the few blocks to the peacekeepers barracks and their black body bags.

But her sunken chest continued to rise and fall as a primal, animal instinct grew in her gut. It was a cruel, merciless feeling that tugged her eyes open and gathered her legs beneath her. Lodged in her gut, it was nearly as strong as the single bright image that rested under her ribs, by her heart; Prim. Her feet barely cleared the mud as she trudged back along the alley to the main square, avoiding the sight of the Reaping stage out of habit. She hardly had energy to raise her eyes, anyway. Braid slapping dully against her back in an odd rhythm; she crossed the open space at a shuffle. Tears mixed with rain on her face and her mouth tasted like mint leaves and bile, but there was nothing in her stomach. She swallowed anyway.

Outside the peacekeepers' barracks, a sodden Capitol flag hung from the pole. District 12 flew only the one flag; they didn't have the pride to fly their own grey pickaxe. With no wind to unfurl it, the flag was a sorry sight. Following habit, Katniss edged carefully around the low, cement building and the little house attached to the back. But, by the head peacekeepers' house, her steps faltered and stopped as she gazed into the yard. A low murmuring and fussing of feathers betrayed three bedraggled hens huddled together under a piece of sloping tin. Feathers slicked to their thin bodies, they were a sorry sight, but the girl's eyes widened and her fingers tightened on the pickets of the fence.

"Get on with you!" Cray growled from the front porch, his dirty white singlet hanging from his uniform pants. The greying trail of hairs on his stomach peered through. Like a frightened deer, Katniss leapt back but her weakened legs betrayed her and she stumbled, landing in the mud. The shock rushed through her, and with no meat to cushion her bones, the impact raced to her gut and fresh tears stung her eyes. They matched the sting of the harsh drops of rain as they fell on her skinny thighs. As she fell, her dress shifted up and draped itself, sodden, around her waist. When Katniss gathered the strength to rise from the sucking mud, Cray ran his tongue over cracked lips and he stroked the porch rail with his thumb.

"Actually, come here, girl."

There was something in his tone, something predatory. Like a fox that hears the braying of the hounds close behind and finds just an ounce more energy, Katniss jacked to her feet. For a moment, it looked as if she would run and her feet shifted in the mud. But she didn't. Instead, her coltish legs carried her to the gate and she lifted the heavy, rusted latch. Brown flakes of rust came off on her fingers, as well as coal dust and the smell of decaying metal was thick in her nostrils. At all of eleven years and eleven months, little Katniss Everdeen, newly fatherless, wondered if she should swing her narrow hips. Turns out, it was all she could do to walk, stiff legged to the porch and try to stop her lip quivering.

"How old are you?"

"Th-thirteen." Her lie fell as heavily as the raindrops.

"Fuck thirteen. You haven't come for tesserae. You're what, ten?"

"I'm nearly twelve," Katniss muttered.

Cray smiled with too many sharp, yellowing teeth. "Nearly old enough to be reaped, aren't you?"

"Y-yes, sir." Standing on the rough brick path, she had to look up at him. That was how Cray liked the girls to come to him. Her soaked dress clung onto her skin, hugging close her childish body. It showed off her lack of curves, and the hollow between her legs.

"Ten coins." Cray's words were tossed down the steps to land at her feet and she wrapped her skinny arms around herself; a frail shield. She knew what Cray did because some of the older girls talked about it at school; Nelly Tarter, Olive Henderson, girls with thin bones and Seam-grey eyes like hers. Katniss opened her mouth but her throat closed tight.

"Ten coins," Cray repeated, "if you have a bath first and get that Seam-shit off you."

Rain drummed on the roof and glass panes of the single window. It was coated with steam, rising from the tub. Katniss had never seen hot water that ran from a tap before; baths, twice a week, were normally four parts cold water and one kettleful of boiled water from the stove. It was always cold before she got her turn.

"Go on, you wash proper now," Cray said from the doorway. Arms crossed over his chest, he leant against the splintered doorframe with a smirk on his face. "Get on with it."

Shaking like a leaf, the taste of bile in her mouth again, Katniss peeled away her father's hunting jacket and hung it off the slat backed chair in the corner of the bathroom. Her fingers trembled and she fumbled over the fine buttons of her dress as if they had shrunk to the size of pinheads. The rough fabric was stuck to her skin, but she sloughed it away. As a snake brushed off its old skin to reveal something new beneath, Katniss did the same, but it was not fresh and new but tarnished. Skin prickling in the warm, moist air, she felt so vulnerable. Her body was a child's, her breasts a mere suggestion, and there was no even a soft down between her legs.

"Hardly worth ten fucking coins," Cray laughs. But, he still groans low in his throat as she lifted her leg high and climbed into the tub. The water was hardly displaced by her tiny body. Cray picked up the chair and dragged it closer, letting the girl's clothes slither to the floor to crumple. A little gasp passed her lips.

"That's-" She was wise enough not to go on and instead picked up the bar of good soap-not the rough lye she's used to, and lathered her skin. With legs splayed out before him, leaning back in the creaking chair, the old peacekeeper eased his belt from his trousers. Coiled on the floor like a snake, it was a frightening reminder, and he slipped his hand down the front of his pants. Katniss didn't look but her shoulders hunched. She took as long as she dared to clean herself, soap dragging on her brittle skin.

"Don't forget your little twat," Cray rasped. "Fucking Seam-shit everywhere." Katniss' eyes prickled with fresh tears as she put the soap under the water, between her legs. The splash didn't quite cover the way Cray chuckled and his breaths came as if he'd been running. "And there's alcohol for your bloody lice-use it."

Her fingers trembled so much, she dropped the rough-glass bottle of rubbing alcohol and had to fish it from the bottom of the copper tub. The cap was on too tight for her to open, though she tried, but her thin fingers were all sinew. Shyly, he stood and offered it to Cray. He only took his hand reluctantly from beneath his waistband. When he twisted the cap open, he didn't even look at the girl's face. His tongue snaked over his bottom lip as the methanol burnt Katniss' scalp and filled the room with its acrid fumes. Her eyes watered and stung, and she shut them tight as she poured it over her head. Her eyes screwed up as if she could block out more than the harsh smell of alcohol. Even when she washed it off, the sting pervaded.

Rain still drummed on the roof when Cray gave Katniss a shove between the shoulders and she stumbled through the door of his bedroom. The bed itself was twice as wide as the one her parents used to share until a few months ago and was layered with two blankets and a quilt that looked like it contained real goose down. She sat down on the edge, the wool blanket scratchy on her skin, but her legs wouldn't support her. Cray kicked the door shut, his fingers busy in his fly and he shucked off his singlet. Katniss stared at the floor, legs crossed and arms over her chest in a futile attempt at modesty as the rest of Cray's clothes littered the floor.

"Look," he growled.

Katniss had seen her father naked as he washed in the tub by the stove in their kitchen. He was all familiar brown skin and tight muscle; as natural as breathing. Cray's stomach was flaccid and his trail of hair steel grey. He was frightening and though she had no gauge, Katniss' young eyed widened and she bit her lip because she thought he was _huge._ She flinched when he strode forward and gave her a sharp shove, sending her toppling onto her back. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with her shallow breaths as Cray put his hands on her knees and splayed out her legs. He knelt between there as if he thought he belonged. Apart from the merchants', his hands were some of the few in the district not to have coal dust ground into the cracks, and he took two fingers, more used to a trigger than a pickaxe, and shoved them _inside _her. The child's small, pained gasp was lost in the man's dark chuckle.

"Tight enough." He sniffed his fingers and wiped them on the soft skin of her hip.

With eyes screwed shut, as if she can block it all out, Katniss felt the dip of the mattress and the heat of Cray's body as he put his hands either side of her head. His breath-garlic and onions-choked her, settling in her nostrils and her little body was taut as a bowstring. When Cray fitted himself inside her, it was a sharp, stretching, _tearing_ pain and her eyes flew open. The promise of the ten coins faded from her mind, the things it could buy-new shoes for Prim, rough grains for the table-and all she felt was the weight of him on her, and the sheer wrongness of it. Twisting, she tried to wriggle out from under him but Cray's hold, vicelike on her shoulder, tugged her back, hard. Casually, he drew his hand back and cuffed her across the cheek.

"I think I'll only give you nine, now. Struggle again, little cunt, and you won't get anything."

Tears leaked from Katniss' eyes and followed the contours of her face to the blanket. _Little cunt_. Her father used to call her his _Little Mockingjay. _Her tears burnt like the alcohol had while Cray thrust viciously above her and Katniss didn't really know _why_-she just prayed for it to be over. Her small, mewling cries are drowned out by Cray's heavy breathing as he took far more than the little girl could-or should ever-give. He came with a string of muttered curses.

"Fuck, can't get that in 2," he muttered, collapsing on top of the girl, still inside her. She breathed in quick, shallow pants until he rolled off, putting his hand idly between her legs. She was as tense as bow-string and only the promise of good leather boots, grain and oil kept her on the bed.

"There." Cray handed her the coins, filling her small, sweaty palm with dull silver. The coins shone, at least in her eyes. "You can stop by tomorrow and make another nine."


End file.
